


I Saw Davey Jones

by cerebel



Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:38:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A relationship, in six pieces, from formation to shatterpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Saw Davey Jones

~1~

Young judges people. He summarizes them, mentally. A few lines, no more. Tags it with a name. As long as he keeps it simple, he can always remember. 

It means, of course, that most of his acquaintances on the job have a hard time getting close to him. He chooses the lines very carefully, makes a box that it’s difficult for them to break out of. And maybe that’s an advantage, for a Colonel. 

“Evening, Lieutenant,” he says, taking a clipboard from the officer. One of the _Hammond’s_. Lieutenant Ghent. A little too charismatic, a little too aloof. Kids. Young remembers him. “How’re the kids?” 

“Doing well, sir,” says Ghent, surprised. “Anna’s entering preschool this week.”

“They grow up so fast,” says Young, dry but wry, all the same. 

“We’ve got your chief scientist here,” says Ghent. “Fresh from the SGC.”

Young glances over Ghent’s shoulder. A scientist. Informally dressed. Intelligent, obviously a genius, will probably need minimal interference from Young. His attention is caught by the landscape around him.

“Never been offworld before,” asks Young, with a glance down the form, “Dr. Rush?” 

“No,” says Rush. “I haven’t.” 

His voice is quiet but trim. Accented, though Young can’t quite identify how, not yet. 

“Welcome to Icarus Base,” says Young. “I’m Colonel Young.” He extends a hand. 

Rush glances to the hand. Shifts his bag to his left hand, and takes it. Smooth, quiet kind of grace, his eyes lifting to Young’s. 

And the energy, the darkness in those eyes pierces straight through Young. 

His skin brushes against Rush’s hand as he lets him go, and Young turns away. His outward composure is smooth as ever, but – well. Rush has already broken out of the lines Young set for him.

It isn’t a good sign.

~2~

He doesn’t know why he has so much trouble, with Rush. It’s not like the man's behavior doesn’t fit into predictable patterns. Whiteboards, notepads, long days where, when Young questions the mess hall staff, they can’t remember if Dr. Rush came in and ate or not. Young, for the most part, dismisses that as the price of pursuing the ninth chevron address, solving of the power issues. Some things require absolute immersion. He doesn’t exactly understand, but he does comprehend. 

Should be easy to distill that into a judgment of Rush. A coherent picture that Young can use to make further judgments. It’s how he works, it’s how he commands. 

“I need you to approve my request for more staff,” says Rush.

“No,” says Young, automatically, because it's a reflex. He can’t stop the urge to sweep Rush into a tidy little box, because if Rush can’t sweep himself, Young will do it for him. “You have the biggest science staff offworld—”

“It’s not enough,” Rush cuts in. “Not a one can keep up with me, and I think you know that, Colonel.”

Surprisingly, Young does know that. He listens to what people say, around, in the hallways, in the mess. He knows that the scientists are frustrated by how far ahead of them Rush is, and _now_ he knows that Rush is similarly frustrated by the lack of help.

“So make them keep up with you,” says Young.

“It’s a waste of time,” says Rush, and there’s a hard edge audible in his words. “I’m telling you, I need—”

“Write up a request, Rush,” says Young. “I’ll review it then.”

A day later, Rush radios him down to where he’s working on the equations, and, when Young is there, thrusts a piece of paper into his hand. The request. 

Rush’s fingers brush along his, when he hands the paper along.

Young doesn’t end up signing it.

\- First Interlude -

Young’s hands are steady as he zips up the duffel bag. Calm, as he takes the communication stones. He knows the time limits. He knows what’s about to happen.

And yet, he’s never been more terrified in his life than he is when he runs up the stargate’s ramp. Maybe he cut it too close, this time --

He doesn’t remember hitting the ground on the other side.

~3~

It’s a difficult habit to unlearn. 

It's just --

He’s gotten used to ignoring the specifics of what Rush says. It’s no skin off his nose if the equation works out one way or another; it’s not a concern of his if Rush uses a particular mathematical method to try and crack the proof. 

He’s used to tuning out Rush’s voice. Focusing on the things that make a difference.

And, suddenly, here, Rush’s words are the only thing that make a difference. 

(Young’s first action, as soon as he wakes up, is to undercut Rush’s authority and try to dial Earth. He finds out that Rush’s first action was to undercut Young’s authority, and take command under authorization of General O’Neill. 

And maybe he doesn’t really blame Rush for that.)

Right now, right here, Rush leans forward, both fingers pointing at Young’s chest, and this time, Young doesn’t really listen to the specifics of the words, either. But he does listen to the intent. 

Turn off all the systems. Power issues. All right. 

“I will,” he says. _Rush, I’m listening._

It’s hard not to think, maybe an hour later, that at least some of this could have been avoided, if only Rush had _better help_. Because Young may be used to ignoring Rush’s demands, but Rush is used to working on his own, simply because he’s too fast for anyone else to keep pace. 

And that's at least partially Young's fault. 

Young can feel the furrow between his brows deepen, as Rush paces back and forth, frantic, in the gate room. He’s been driven to distraction. He’s – he’s even trembling, Young thinks, though he can’t be sure.

One hand moves to his radio, calling for TJ, and Rush doesn’t even seem to notice.

Is it Young’s fault that Rush was driven to this? If he’d just signed the damn paper –

He reaches out, and his fingertips brush against Rush’s arm, but he moves too late (what else is new) and Rush falls.

“TJ, _now_!” he snaps, into the radio.

~4~

Change. All Young has to do is change. All he has to do is give in. 

But now it’s too late to make much of a difference. 

“Thank you, Eli,” says Rush, softly. “I never thought I’d get a chance to see the ship from the outside.”

The shuttle is disappearing into the darkness of space, as this system’s sun gets brighter and brighter. Too bright to look at directly, even with the shading that must be over the windows. 

And Young muses that there’s something in Rush’s eyes he’s never seen before. 

“You know what I think,” says Young, “I’m gonna go for a walk. How does that sound, sergeant?” Because there are things, things he should resolve with Greer. The last person on board who’s really important to Young. Who's a friend. Who managed to break through Young’s boxed-in judgment of him, both positive and negative. 

Rush – Rush maybe doesn’t count. Because he never really got the judgment in the first place. 

“Sounds like a plan, sir,” says Greer, softly.

“I shall be in my quarters for the duration,” says Rush. Says it to Young, not to Chloe, to Eli, to Greer. “I have a hundred pages of a truly – mediocre book, to finish.” 

Finish a book. Finish a relationship. 

Finish living.

Young aches, suddenly, for a possibility that never was. 

He half-smiles, reaches out his hand to Rush. And Rush hesitates, eyes flicking from the hand to Young’s face, but he reaches out, and he clasps it. 

It means something, at least.

~4 (reprise)~

The dull red light is overwhelming, out the window, and Young settles back on the bed. He shivers, with a flood of adrenaline, of fear, every once in a while, but for the most part, he’s as calm in life as he is facing death. 

Still on edge, though, as evidenced by the twitch, the jump, as his door slides open.

“Colonel,” says Rush.

“Something new?” 

“No,” says Rush, “no, I’m afraid not.” 

Young quirks an eyebrow. “What about the book?” 

“Like I said,” says Rush. “Mediocre.” 

Young sits up, on the edge of the bed. “Why you here, Rush?” he asks – might as well go for the direct approach – but it’s not necessary. Rush is on him, all too quickly, hand sliding onto Young’s neck, dropping to a knee so he’s on level with Young, kissing him. 

The ache is only worse, because of this. This is what could have been, Young is almost certain of it. 

There’s no need for a ‘why now’ – the answer to that question is getting bigger and bigger outside the window – so Young doesn’t bother. He hauls Rush up, onto the bed, on top of him, and seals the kiss again. 

Rush isn’t hurried, Young finds. His fingers are fast and accurate, first on Young’s uniform jacket, then his shirt, then his trousers; Rush’s mouth is hungry but sweet, a sweet kind of hunger with an edge of desperate and pained and _right_. 

It’s so easy to fall into a rhythm. A tactile rhythm, skin against skin, fingers and ribs, muscles shifting and the softness of the inside of an arm, the crook of an elbow. 

Rush just seems to want to _touch_. As much as possible. As long as possible.

But they’re running out of time, and they both know it, and so Rush doesn’t protest when Young rolls them over, pinning Rush underneath him, drawing Rush’s naked thigh up so it curves around Young’s hip.

Rush settles back, his eyes absolute black in the red light from the star. And the only indication of what he’s feeling is the soft, stuttering touch he trails down Young’s cheek. 

Young closes his eyes. Listens to Rush’s breathing, and feels the way Rush subtly curves around Young’s presence. 

How could he have missed this? How did he not realize what his blank frustration with Rush _meant_? 

Rush’s thumb brushes across Young’s lip.

Young kisses Rush, and in it, in _everything_ , he can feel the easy, mellow quality that Rush has had, ever since he woke up from his fainting spell. 

( _…just right._

 _It’s a good thought. But without getting into delta V, thrust to weight ratios…_ )

“We don’t have much time,” says Rush, halfway between a murmur and a whisper. 

“I know.”

Things aren’t really worked out through words, just touch and sense, and then he presses forward, inside Rush, tracing abstract patterns on Rush’s thigh. 

Rush exhales, a soft whisper of air that’s soaked in need, and he shifts, arches to draw Young closer, deeper inside. And Young moves, long, easy, slow thrusts until Rush’s hand tightens on Young’s arm, until he’s breathing curses, until he trembles in one long, drawn-out kind of shiver. Pushes until Young is on his back, and _rides_ him, with a sort of painfully tangled intensity. 

Young climaxes _hard_ , and he doesn’t worry about the light outside the window anymore. Just drifts, until Rush moves to his feet, looks out the window, and gives a disbelieving laugh.

~5~

“Then this would be an _excellent_ time for you to _trust me to_ solve this problem.” 

Young holds Rush’s gaze, for a half second, and nods, stepping back. Trust him. Listen to him. This is something Young can do.

No matter how agonizing it is knowing the shuttle is close, but just too far. No matter how frustrating to hear a silence that means they have no answers. And no matter how painful it is to know that everything, everything depends on Scott’s piloting skill, and there’s nothing he can do. 

And then they’re back. Docked. 

And it’s not frustrating, painful, agonizing. It’s just – a relief. 

“Well done,” says Young. “Well _done!_ ” with a triumphant rub against the back of Rush’s neck. Ignores Rush’s reflexive tension, because it doesn’t matter. They saved the day, nothing else matters.

\- Second Interlude -

“Doctor Rush, have a seat,” he invites. “These two have even showered.” 

“No thanks,” says Rush.

A curious response, but Young forges on. “C’mon, we should celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?” asks Rush, ironically. “That we’re back where we started?”

Scott invites Rush too, but Young isn’t paying attention. His eyes are on Rush. On the change that’s happened, there. Why is he different? What happened to him? 

“Some other time,” says Rush. 

“Well, Becker, give him a double ration,” says Young. A kind of concession. “He deserves it.”

“Why is that, then?”

This conversation is going in a dangerous direction. But he can’t – he can’t stop it now. 

“I’m in a good mood,” he says. 

“We’re to be rewarded at your whim, then.”

Oh, no. “No, no, just stop,” says Young, “you want some reasons, I’ll give you three.” Standing, moving over to Rush. “You were right about the power situation.” That’s one. 

“Not really.”

“You figured out the subspace communications. How to call the shuttle.”

“We needed to get those supplies back.”

“You took your name out of the lottery.”

A pause, and Rush twists his spoon between his fingers. “So did you.”

“I was injured,” demurs Young. “You made a real sacrifice.”

Rush lifts his eyes to Young, and there’s a tension around Rush’s eyes that wasn’t there before. Wasn’t there when they shook hands, or in Young’s quarters, or when Rush told him that they were going to die. 

“Unless you knew,” guesses Young. 

Rush’s expression is blank, but it’s blank tinged with something Young can’t identify. The man’s frustrating secretiveness. Something has shut off, inside him, and Young wonders, now, if it was a lie he just didn’t see before.

\- Third Interlude -

A surge of betrayal. Bitterness, nausea, as he watches Rush enter the room. Pause, and step closer to Spencer’s body. 

As he watches Rush carefully unwrap Spencer’s hand, taking the gun. And run a hand over Spencer’s eyes, closing his eyelids, before leaving. 

It’s that one humane act, the hint of mercy, that snaps something inside Young.

~6~

Young’s hand closes around Rush’s arm. 

“It can wait,” he says, and he can feel the tremor through Rush’s form. 

That’s it, isn’t it? Touch always shows the truth.


End file.
